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Discovering Diverse Content Through
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prepossessing. A perpetual sneer seemed to linger round his slit-like
mouth as he impatiently gnawed his nether lip.
Thrice he made a wide circuit of the tree-trunk, then, stamping his
foot with ill-concealed impatience, resumed his vigil.
Presently he was joined by two other horsemen, one apparently a
person of quality, and the other a thick-limbed, low-browed retainer.
"Greeting, Sir Thomas Grey," exclaimed the former of the twain who
had just ridden up. "Didst think that I had played thee false?"
"Nay, but I must confess 'twas in my mind that if my Lord Scrope
was daunted by a thunderstorm, his words are more weighty than
his actions."
"Let that pass," replied the knight addressed as Lord Scrope, with an
attempt at sternness. "'Tis no time for sorry jest. Hast seen aught of
Cambridge?"
"The Earl hath kept within doors at his lodging at Winton," replied
Grey. "Nor would he trust himself in writing. Yet according to his
promise made when last we met, 'tis certain he will abide by our
proposals."
"'Tis well. Now concerning Harry of Monmouth?"
"I know of a surety that he journeys to Waltham four days hence."
"Then he must pass——?"
"Through Stoneham and Durley."
"Of that thou art certain?"
"As certain as death."
"Nay, talk not of death," replied Lord Scrope with a superstitious
shudder. "Wilt thou bring thy five lances to the cross-roads at Horton
Heath—thou knowest the place where the lane opens out beyond
the pine-trees?—then with my fifteen and the Earl's score of
mounted men we can easily make an onfall upon this base usurper."
"'Tis not to be a spear-running to find favour in the eyes of our
ladies," observed Sir Thomas Grey. "If we can bring the wolf to earth
without scath to ourselves 'tis to be preferred. Therefore I propose
to line the hedge with cross-bowmen, shoot down the King and as
many of his retinue as possible, and put the rest to the sword."
"And then——?"
"The rest is easy. We must needs make our way north as quietly as
we are able. The Earl of Cambridge will, in the ordinary course of
events, proclaim the Earl of March, and with this puppet wearing the
regal purple our future—by the powers of darkness, what is that?"
"What hath startled thee, Grey?"
"Methought I heard something fall from above."
"A fine conspirator thou art, to jump at the creaking of a bough,"
remarked Lord Scrope. "Didst thou hear aught, sirrah?" he
continued, raising his voice and addressing his retainer, who stood
barely within earshot.
"Nay, my lord."
"'Tis as I thought. Now to continue our discourse."
Meanwhile the two squires, perched upon one of the overhanging
boughs, had heard almost every word of the diabolical plot, save
when a clap of thunder interrupted their hearing. In his eagerness to
follow the conversation Oswald had leant forward, and in so doing
his dagger slipped from its sheath. Fortunately, its point stuck into a
branch below, and though discovery was averted, the dull thud had
reached the ears of the younger of the two conspirators.
"We have heard enough," whispered Geoffrey, touching his comrade
on the shoulder. "Make thy way cautiously to the other side of the
tree, creep along its lowermost branch, and when the next peal of
thunder comes drop to earth and run for your life."
"And thou?"
"Art with thee, never fear."
Three hours later Sir Thomas Carberry, Constable of the Castle of
Portchester, was supping in his tent in the camp at Bitterne. The
non-arrival of his squire and his companion had caused him no little
anxiety, yet, reflecting that the storm had compelled them to take
shelter, he prepared to retire to rest.
Suddenly he heard the voice of one of the men-at-arms on guard
raised in a peremptory challenge. The flap of the tent was thrust
aside, and two breathless, footsore, and rain-soaked persons, whom
the knight hardly recognized, burst into his presence without so
much as "By thy leave."
"Sir," gasped Geoffrey, "we have happened upon a plot——"
"To do me out of my night's rest?" interrupted Sir Thomas grimly.
"Nay, sir, 'tis no jest. 'Tis a plot against the life of the King!"
 CHAPTER XX

THE TRAITORS' DOOM

E arly on the morning of the first day of August Sir Thomas

Carberry, accompanied by his two squires and Oswald, waited
upon the King at his lodging in the High Street of Southampton.
Although King Henry had been in residence for nearly twenty days,
his indomitable energy had compelled him to take long daily
journeys to all parts of the county of Hampshire.
Thus one day he would be at Portsmouth, inspecting the scanty
defences of that as yet infant fortress. Then at Winchester,
conferring with the city council concerning the raising of a loan, or at
Bishop's Waltham, there to attend to some affairs that many would
have regarded as too trivial to occupy the Sovereign's precious
moments. But it was in things small as well as great that Henry was
thorough. He had fully grasped the importance of the fact that
attention to details brought its own reward.
Early though it was, the King had already transacted a heavy share
of work ere Sir Thomas Carberry alighted before the door of the
house that sheltered his youthful Sovereign.
At the moment of his arrival a deputation of the Honourable Guild of
Merchants was leaving the royal presence—the senior alderman with
his gold chain of office, the seneschal, chaplain, four echevins, and
the usher, attended by the customary number of sergeants. Their
faces bore testimony to the performance of a serious yet successful
business, for the Guild had received the royal assent to an important
charter in consideration of the sum of twenty thousand marks—the
loyal contribution of a powerful and wealthy community.
It was King Henry's custom to receive deputations and persons of
quality in semi-public state. At the termination of each audience
properly accredited personages were permitted to enter the hall
where the Sovereign held his levée, and there to await their turn
according to the order of the Ceremoniarius.
Thus when Sir Thomas had announced his name and style to the
herald he and his attendants found themselves in the royal presence,
a barrier of cloth of gold separating the waiting audience from the
daïs and a broad intervening space, where the greatest of the
nobility and clergy of the realm stood about their Sovereign.
Henry V was now in his twenty-eighth year, and in the full vigour of
his life. He was slightly above middle stature, with strongly and
handsomely formed limbs. His features were oval in shape, clear-
skinned, and surmounted by a thick crop of smooth, dark brown
hair. His lips were characteristic of firmness, his indented chin
denoted stubbornness, while sagacity and prudence showed
themselves in a straight nose and clear, brilliant eyes, though a
reddish tinge in the latter gave promise of a stern, almost brutal,
temper when provoked to anger.
This was the commanding presence that invited Geoffrey's attention.
To those surrounding the daïs he gave slight heed, albeit there were
Gloucester and Bedford, the King's brothers, Exeter, his uncle,
Salisbury and Warwick, His Grace of Canterbury, the Bishops of
Winchester, Exeter, Ely, and Norwich, and a host of the most famous
knightly warriors of the realm.
At the moment of the Constable of Portchester's entry a young
gentleman of quality was being presented to the King, and, to the
great surprise of Geoffrey and Oswald, they heard the name of their
chance acquaintance at Botley.
"Olandyne of Ripley, in the County of Surrey. Greeting, Master
Olandyne, what is thy pleasure?"
"A boon, sire," exclaimed the suppliant, falling on one knee and
kissing the extended hand of the monarch.
"Say on, young sir, though many are the boons that we are asked to
confer."
"Sire, I have raised at no small cost a troop of twenty men-at-arms.
These I respectfully offer for service in the field." Here Olandyne
paused, unable to utter another word.
"We see not what is the nature of thy request. To us it savours of a
service most loyally rendered," replied the King. "Say on—what boon
dost thou ask?"
"That I may be permitted to lead them in battle, sire."
"Thy request is most reasonable, young sir. Since——"
"I crave your Majesty's hearing for a few brief moments," exclaimed
the Bishop of Norwich in deep, measured tones. "It hath come to my
knowledge that this fellow was formerly a monk of the
Charterhouse, and hath broken his vows of charity, obedience, and
constancy to the Order."
"What hast thou to say to this accusation, young sir?"
"'Tis indeed true, sire," replied Olandyne brokenly. "Yet the desire for
a soldier's life overcame the choice made for me of service within
the walls of an abbey. In sooth, sire, I could not keep the vows that
were forced upon me. I——"
"Enough, young sir," thundered Henry, his eyes blazing sternly at the
trembling form of the ex-monk, while the Duke of Exeter whispered
something in the ear of his royal nephew.
"Nay, Uncle Exeter, we are not ashamed to speak our mind, nor are
we willing to offend Holy Mother Church. Therefore, Master
Olandyne, thy services are not required. Thou canst withdraw from
our presence, disgraced, but free from any fear of apprehension and
punishment."
Louting low to his Sovereign, Olandyne backed slowly from the daïs,
his face ashen with mortification, confusion, and anger. Nor were
there few of the assembled company who had compassion for the
luckless man whose proffered service had been so curtly declined
and whose visions of martial prowess were so rudely dispelled.
"Ah, our trusted and much beloved Sir John Carberry," exclaimed the
King heartily as the Constable of Portchester advanced to the daïs,
followed by the three squires. "Well, Sir John, how fares it with
thee?"
"Sire, I am a soldier and slow of speech. Words come not readily to
the tip of my tongue. But, sire, on a matter of deepest importance I
would speak with thee."
"Is the matter so important that it cannot be declared in the
presence of our trusty and loyal subjects?"
"That is for thee to decide, sire. But if so be that thou wilt desire the
Earls of Gloucester and York, the Earl Marshal, and His Grace of
Canterbury to attend thee in private, I bid so bold as to say that my
communication is no ordinary one."
"Be it so, then," replied Henry, rising from his oaken chair. "Fair sirs,
we would your presence in private."
"Now, Sir John," continued the King as the doors of the ante-room
were closed, "'tis no personal matter of thine, on that I'll stake my
crown."
"Sire, saving thy presence, my Sovereign's safety is mine honour,
and mine honour I deem a personal matter."
"Thou hast a shrewd argument, Sir John, in spite of thy slowness of
speech. Thou hast hinted at danger to our person. Say on."
Briefly, yet concisely, the Constable of Portchester related the
treasonable meeting of Lord Scrope of Masham and Sir Thomas Grey
under the oak tree, while Geoffrey and Oswald felt their hearts beat
rapidly and their cheeks flush as their part in the discovery of the fell
plot was unfolded to the royal ears.
"This is no light matter," remarked King Harry at the conclusion of
the knight's story. "Justice must be worked upon these traitors.
Where are Cambridge, Scrope, and Grey?"
"Lord Scrope is in audience, your Majesty," replied the marshal. "Sir
Thomas Grey was at his lodging hard by the Bar Gate but an hour
agone. As for His Grace of Cambridge, according to this list I find
that he is still at Winchester."
"Get thee hence, Sir Marshal," said the King. "Set a guard of archers
to watch my Lord Scrope, without giving him cause for alarm. Send
also to the caitiff Grey, and require his presence instantly. Should he
refuse, then arrest him, otherwise let him come unsuspectingly. As
for the Earl, send a party of mounted men-at-arms to Winchester
and secure his person."
When the marshal had departed on his errand the King turned to Sir
John Carberry.
"By my halidome, thy squire and the squire of our absent Sir Oliver
Lysle have borne themselves with credit. Harry of Monmouth is slow
to reward, yet none the less sure. Let them prove themselves by
some deed of arms in the field, and in due course the gilded spurs of
knighthood shall be theirs."
"Now, my lords," he continued, "let us return to the council chamber.
Not a word nor a look must be given to show that aught is amiss till
Grey is confronted with his partners in their most abhorrent guilt."
On returning to the larger hall the King resumed his reception,
devoting his attention to every suitor who sought a hearing, though
at intervals his glance was directed at the throng behind the
barriers, where the traitor Scrope was a conspicuous figure.
At length Sir Thomas Grey, who had evidently arrayed himself with
haste, entered the room in company with the marshal.
"Ah, we do perceive our right worthy Grey," exclaimed the King.
"Forward, fair sir, we have need of thy services on some small
matter."
Unsuspectingly Sir Thomas Grey advanced to the daïs, where he
stood awaiting his Sovereign's pleasure.
"We believe, Sir Thomas, that thou wert sent as envoy to our cousin
of France?"
"Yea, sire."
"Let me think, who were thy fellow-envoys?"
"Sir George Pakenham and Lord Scrope of Masham, sire."
"Is Sir George present?"
The voice of the herald in waiting was heard calling for the absent
Pakenham, whom the King knew to be on duty at the Tower of
London.
"Then, my Lord Scrope—is he, too, absent on affairs of State?"
"I am here, sire," exclaimed the recreant earl edging his way
towards the King's presence.
If either of the two conspirators had had an inkling of what was in
the mind of their Sovereign, neither showed it. Grave and
imperturbably dignified they stood side by side before the daïs.
King Harry kept silence for a few moments, then with a dangerous
flash in his eyes he exclaimed:
"Uncle Exeter, thou knowest thy duty."
"Henry, Lord Scrope of Masham, I arrest thee for high treason.
Thomas Grey, knight of Northumberland, I arrest thee also for high
treason."
A tense silence fell upon the assembly, broken at length by
movement of the King's body-guard of archers as they advanced to
seize the two traitors. As for Lord Scrope, he sullenly submitted to
be bound, but Grey's hand flew to his sword-hilt. The weapon
flashed dully in the subdued light, but a soldier's hand grasped the
knight's wrist in a vice-like grip; the steel clanked upon the oaken
floor, and in a twinkling the second traitor was secured.
The fate that befel the three conspirators is a matter of history.
Cambridge, Scrope, and Grey were brought to a hasty trial, and
condemned on the 2nd day of August, 1415. The same day Grey
was led on foot from the Watergate to the North Gate, and there
beheaded. On the 5th of the same month the Earl of Cambridge
walked the same route, while his meaner partner in crime, Lord
Scrope, was drawn to the North Gate on a hurdle, where both paid
the death penalty.
The earl's body was buried in God's House, in the town of
Southampton, while the heads of Scrope and Grey were sent to York
and Newcastle respectively, where they were exhibited as a stern
warning to those who sought to plot against their lawful Sovereign.
On the same evening of the earl's trial Geoffrey and Oswald were
walking by the shore near the Watergate, when their attention was
drawn to a young man vehemently bargaining with the master of a
fishing-boat.
"For forty marks I'll set thee ashore on French soil, young sir,"
exclaimed the seaman decisively. "Not a groat less."
"Then do so, for before heaven I have forsworn the land of my
birth."
Instinctively Geoffrey gripped his comrade's arm. The voice was that
of the ex-monk Olandyne.
 CHAPTER XXI

HOW GEOFFREY FARED AT THE SIEGE OF

HARFLEUR

It was an unwonted sight that met the eyes of the burghers of

Harfleur on the morning of the 14th day of August, 1415. From
the Rade de Caen to the Rade de Havre the estuary of the Seine was
dotted with sails—not those of peaceful merchantmen, but of the
ships of the English invaders.
King Harry led the van in a carrack with purple sails, on which were
embroidered the arms of England and France. The sun glinted on
the armour and shields of the knights of his household, while to add
to the almost barbaric splendour of the royal ship musicians blew
trumpets and clarions, with all the energy left at their command
after a stormy passage across the Channel.
In the wake of the King's carrack, and stretching in irregular lines far
to the east and west, lumbered the rest of the fleet of fifteen
hundred vessels, till the wide estuary seemed choked with floating
fortresses.
On the towering forecastle of the Rose of Hampshire, Sir Thomas
Carberry's own cog, a knot of squires and men-at-arms were eagerly
scanning the walls and towers of the still distant town of Harfleur.
"I' faith, 'tis a vast difference since the time when we crawled in
thither in the old Grâce à Dieu," observed Gripwell.
"Ay," assented Geoffrey. "But what thinkest thou—will the citizens of
Harfleur offer resistance?"
"Not to our landing, young sir. Were they ten times as strong they
could not hold the vast stretch of shore. But methinks all this host
will not frighten them into letting go of their riches without a tough
struggle. Mark ye the Jumelles—those twin towers guarding the
harbour? Unless mine eyes deceive me, I perceive the glint of steel
behind the battlements."
"I heard it mentioned that five of our largest galleys were to make a
dash into the harbour," remarked Oswald.
"Foolish talk," ejaculated the old man-at-arms contemptuously.
"When we were last within this part didst thou not mark two great
chains trailing from embrasures in either tower? Ere now, I'll
warrant, those chains have been drawn up, so that no vessel can
pass in or out. Certes! Swept by stones, bolts, and arrows, to say
nought of those new-fashioned bombards, no craft will remain afloat
for five minutes. Nay, Master Oswald, therein thou hast been
misinformed, for a leader like King Harry, for all that he be young
and daring, would not hazard a main on such a vain enterprise."
As Gripwell had foretold, the English host landed without opposition,
at a spot barely a league from the town of Harfleur. Altogether the
arduous task of disembarking the stores and munitions of war
occupied another three days, at the end of which time Henry
commenced a strict blockade of the doomed town.
Nor did he merely sit down before Harfleur. A double line of trenches
and batteries at the most salient points were constructed;
bombards, firing a thirty-pound stone shot, were secured to their
cumbersome carriages, and a heavy fire was directed against the
walls.
While this was in progress a mine was commenced close to the
northern gate of the town. Working day and night, the sappers plied
mattock and spade so diligently that on the third day of the siege
the tunnel had all but reached the base of one of the flanking towers
of the gate.
To protect these underground toilers a strong force of men-at-arms
was stationed in the subterranean gallery under the orders of the
Constable of Portchester, who directed his two squires Richard
Ratclyffe and Geoffrey, to take alternate duty in the mine.
"And mark ye well," he exclaimed. "Ever and anon ye must bid the
diggers cease. Then listen attentively. If ye hear the sound of the
Frenchmen's spades speed and bring me word, or our labour is
undone. They of the city are not a mere rabble of townsfolk to be
despised, for both the Lord of Gaucourt and Sir Jean d'Estrelle are
past masters in the art of war. If they have not already commenced
a countermine, may I never again break bread."
Just before midnight Geoffrey descended the shaft leading to the
tunnel. The sullen glare of the torches threw a weird light upon the
naked backs of the diggers, the tarnished armour of the men-at-
arms, and the timber props of the long, narrow gallery that reeked
vilely of an unwholesome smoke-laden atmosphere.
"Hast heard aught?" asked he of Ratclyffe, who had hastened to
meet him with evident relief.
"I did but bid the men cease a short while ago," replied the elder
squire. "All is quiet as the grave."
Left to himself, Geoffrey slowly paced the tunnel betwixt the bottom
of the shaft and the part occupied by the guard of men-at-arms. The
heat soon became so oppressive that he removed his bascinet,
placing it on a convenient baulk of timber, then wrapping a scarf
round his head he continued his measured pace to and fro till he had
completed twelve lengths of the tunnel.
Then bidding the toilers desist, he placed his ear to the damp
ground and listened intently.
"Methinks Sir John will have to forswear his bread," he exclaimed to
himself, as the diggers resumed their operations.
Thrice did the squire call a halt, but on each occasion there were no
signs or sounds of the counter-miners' work.
At length one of the sappers called out that he had struck stone.
Making his way to the head of the tunnel, Geoffrey saw by the aid of
a torch that the man had spoken truly. The lowermost layer of
masonry of the tower lay exposed three feet from the floor of the
tunnel.
All that now remained to be done was to undermine the base and
place explosives in position.
"Go and carry word to Sir John," ordered Geoffrey, addressing a
man-at-arms. "Perchance he may wish to examine the stone-work
ere the powder is brought hither."
The soldier hastened on his errand, while the men continued to
attack the hard soil with their spades. They had succeeded in their
efforts to strike the base of the tower, and one and all were
delighted with their success.
Just as Geoffrey was on the point of bidding the toilers desist the
floor of the tunnel suddenly collapsed, leaving a gaping hole,
through which a swarm of armed men poured with shouts of
triumph.
Ere the English men-at-arms could draw their swords the foemen
were upon them, striking down the unarmed sappers right and left.
In the confusion most of the torches were extinguished, and in the
almost total darkness friend gripped friend by the throat, the cries of
the wounded adding to the uproar.
With cries of "A Gaucourt!" "St Denis à mon aide!" the French
knights pressed home the attack, while the English men-at-arms,
with cries of "St. George for England!" strove to hold their own
against the overwhelming numbers. More torches were brought to
illuminate the ghastly scene, and by their light men fought and died
like wild beasts.
Unmindful of his unprotected head, Geoffrey had drawn his sword at
the first alarm, and had contrived to force his way to the front. Skill
and coolness were thrown to the winds, and striking madly at the
forest of opposing spears and swords, the squire strove to keep the
foe at bay.
Soon his fury began to tell on him; his sword-arm was becoming
nerveless under the strain, while his shoulder was bleeding profusely
from a thrust betwixt the joints of his armour.
Still he fought on, till he heard the glad sounds of the succouring
forces that the Constable of Portchester was bringing up with all
dispatch to the rescue. Just then a mortally wounded man-at-arms
gripped the lad's ankle. Simultaneously a powerful Norman flung
himself upon the enfeebled and embarrassed squire, and losing his
balance, Geoffrey fell.
In the glare of the torchlight he saw the Frenchman's arm raised to
deal a coup-de-grâce, but with an exclamation of surprise the man
checked the descending knife. A thousand flashing lights danced
before Geoffrey's eyes, and with a groan he lost consciousness.

When the young squire came to his senses he found himself lying on
a rough pallet in a darkened room. It was now morning. From
without came the sullen roar of artillery, mingled with the shouts,
shrieks, and cries of the combatants, showing that the assault was
being pushed home.
By degrees Geoffrey remembered the events of the previous night—
the opening of the countermine, the grim and terrible struggle in the
subterranean depths, and his own misfortune. He had a vivid
recollection of the arresting of the descending knife of his adversary,
but beyond that his memory failed him. Why was he thus spared?
Where was he, and by whose agency had he been brought hither?
But the lad's throbbing brain could not suggest a reason. In vain he
strove to collect his thoughts, till with a groan of pain and mental
anguish he turned himself on his couch. Then he became aware that
his shoulder had been dressed, and that a wet bandage had been
tied round his head.
Presently, worn out with utter exhaustion, the squire fell into a
troubled sleep.
When he awoke the sounds of conflict had died away. A slight
murmur in the room caused him to turn his face towards the door.
He was not alone. Standing on the threshold was a man dressed in a
leathern jacket and close-fitting iron cap, while above his right
shoulder projected the stirrup and part of the steel bow of an
arbalist.
In spite of his dress and equipment, Geoffrey recognized the man; it
was Gaston le Noir, the pilot of La Broie.
"Art awake, young sir?" quoth the Norman. "I trust thou wilt soon be
thyself once more."
"How came I here, Gaston?" asked Geoffrey.
"How camest thou here? By St. Denis, 'twas by reason of the debt I
owe thee, which I have been enabled to repay. Yet, let it be
understood that 'twas more by chance than otherwise, for had I not
seen thy face my knife would have been plunged into thy body."
"Then thou art the man who grappled with me, Gaston?"
"Ay," replied the pilot shortly, "I came near to slaying thee in fair
fight."
"How camest thou to be shut up in Harfleur?" asked Geoffrey
curiously.
"Young sir, I am ever a true Frenchman, therefore 'tis my duty to
bear my part in defending the town. Moreover, thy countrymen have
burned the village of La Broie, and with it my house; and, what is
more, my boat has been pressed into their service."
"But when the war is over and we are masters of France thou canst
return to ply thy trade as pilot."
"The English will never be masters of France, young sir," replied the
Norman fiercely. "The greater the danger the stronger will all true
Frenchmen stand."
"Art thou not a vassal of the Duke of Normandy, and is not our king
the Duke?"
"A duke who wars against his overlord is no master of mine,"
retorted the Norman. "But now, young sir, I must away. Wilt thou
give me thy solemn word that thou wilt remain my prisoner, and not
attempt to escape? Bear in mind that on the occasion of the attack
upon the English mines an order was given that no prisoners were to
be taken. At great risk I bore thee hither, and if thou wert discovered
by the governor of the town or his officers 'twould go hard with thee
and me. Come, Squire Lysle, thy promise!"
"Nay," replied Geoffrey resolutely, "I'll not give thee my parole. Yet
rest assured, should I fail in my attempt to break away, none shall
know from whose care I have escaped."
"Hot-headed boy!" exclaimed Gaston. "Thou wilt undo all the good I
fain would do. Nevertheless, I'll see that thou art guarded. When I
am on the walls my man Philippe will stand without the door.
Shouldst thou attempt to pass hence thy blood be upon thine own
head."
In high dudgeon Gaston le Noir left the lad's presence, vowing that
since he had requited his debt he would not suffer his prisoner to be
a source of danger to him. Presently he returned, accompanied by a
heavy-browed, huge-limbed man whom Geoffrey recognized as
being one of the crew of the pilot's boat on the occasion of his
journey up the Seine to Rouen.
"Philippe, mark well," exclaimed Gaston. "I have made a fool of
myself by giving quarter to this squire; yet thou and I must needs
keep a sharp eye on him. Therefore, should he attempt to quit this
place, do not fear to pass thy knife across his throat."
Gaston's companion regarded the youth with a grim stare, while
Geoffrey took stock of him, wondering whether in his weak state he
could, by any manner of chance, prove a match for the powerful-
looking seaman. Then, as the door was closed and barred, Geoffrey
fell back upon his pallet, a prey to deep despondency.
Though he appreciated Gaston's action in saving his life, the squire
realized that the man meant to keep his word. Then, as he dwelt
upon the situation, Geoffrey began to see the object of the Norman's
solicitude. With the fall of the town, for fall it must, unless succour
were speedily forthcoming, the inhabitants would in all probability be
put to the sword for having offered resistance to their feudal lord.
Therefore Gaston hoped to save his own life by proclaiming his good
deed in rescuing the squire from certain death.
Slowly the days of captivity passed, yet the vigilance of the youth's
captors was in no wise relaxed. On the subject of the state of the
siege they maintained a strict reticence, though by the scanty fare
supplied Geoffrey knew that provisions were beginning to fail within
the beleaguered town.
Meanwhile the besiegers lay thick without the walls, and slowly yet
surely advanced their trenches almost under the shadow of the
battlements. But a deadly foe had made its appearance amongst
King Henry's host. Dysentery, caused by bad and insufficient food
and the September dampness, raged through the camp, till three
thousand men, or one-tenth of the invaders, fell victims to the dread
pestilence.
Under these circumstances the King realized that it would be better
to risk a few hundred lives in a general onslaught than to lose his
men in the comparative inaction of an investment; and on the
eighteenth day of September preparations for a desperate attack
upon the defences were commenced.
Eager to learn the reason for the unmistakable bustle in the
besiegers' camp, the Lord of Gaucourt sent a spy from the town. The
spy was detected, and on being taken before King Henry he was
ordered to be hanged at sunset before the North Gate.
Within the town famine was rampant, but, suspecting that some of
the inhabitants had concealed a stock of provisions instead of
contributing to the common fund, Gaucourt ordered a house-to-
house search.
One of the results of the examination was that Geoffrey was
discovered in the house where Gaston had taken up his abode. But
for Philippe's dulness of mind the young squire might have been
regarded as one of the wounded defenders of the town, but instead
the squire was seized and carried before the Governor of Harfleur.
Closely questioned by the Lord of Gaucourt, Geoffrey admitted that
he was a squire to the Constable of Portchester, and had been taken
prisoner at the destruction of the mine, but he steadfastly refused to
give the name of his captor; and as Gaston had hidden himself on
the news of the apprehension of his prisoner, and Philippe had
retained sufficient sense to pretend to be unable to throw light upon
the matter, the culprit who had broken the orders relating to the
refusal of quarter remained undiscovered.
"Away with him," thundered Gaucourt at the conclusion of the
interrogation. "To the tower at the North Gate. Bid the men-at-arms
erect a gallows on the battlements and send a herald to the enemy.
Tell them that an English squire is in our hands, and should they
execute our spy this squire's life shall pay forfeit."
It was a strange sight that met Geoffrey's gaze as he found himself
on the lofty battlements with the shadow of a rough gallows falling
athwart the shattered masonry.
Around him stood Gaucourt and the chief men of the garrison and
town, while in the background were the men-at-arms and cross-
bowmen to whom the defence of the tower was entrusted.
Below the outlines of the besiegers' trenches were spread out like a
gigantic map, while upon the earthworks English archers and men-
at-arms swarmed like ants, shaking their fists and shouting in
impotent rage at the men who were about to take vengeance upon
their prisoner.
Yet not an arrow nor a bolt was discharged from either party, for an
hour's truce had been agreed upon, so that the French herald could
place his master's proposals for the life of the spy before King Henry.
At a safe distance in the rear of the trenches clustered the tents of
the English host, the largest flying the banner of the lion and
leopards quartered with the fleur-de-lys that denoted the royal
pavilion.
Massed in close columns were bodies of the English men-at-arms,
accompanied by a swarm of lightly-clad men bearing long scaling
ladders. Amongst the banners of the knights who were to lead the
desperate attack Geoffrey recognized the star and crescent of Sir
Thomas Carberry's company as the Hampshire men stood to their
arms, ready at the termination of the truce to rush towards the walls
to rescue or avenge their young squire.
At length, escorted by a guard of mounted archers, the French
herald left the royal pavilion and rode slowly towards the town.
Hardly had he reached the innermost of the triple line of trenches
when there was a commotion amidst the tents, and, accompanied by
a brilliant train of knights, Henry himself advanced to direct the
threatened assault.
"How now, herald?" demanded the Lord of Gaucourt as the envoy,
hot and breathless, gained the summit of the tower.
"Fair sir, the English king is not to be bent from his purpose. He bids
me say that, according to the usages of war, he will hang our man.
Moreover, if this squire dies on the gallows, thy life and that of a
score of the bravest knights and men of quality of this town will
answer for it—'not by the sword, but by a hempen cord, be the
blood of a Gaucourt ever so blue.' Those were the words of the King
of England."
At the threat of the rope the French knight's cheeks blanched, for,
brave though he was, he recoiled at the thought of dying the death
of a churl. Then recovering himself, he exclaimed—
"Let not the King of England think to turn me from my purpose.
Watch yon gallows carefully; if our spy is thrown from the ladder,
then up with yon squire. I also will remain here to see to the
ordering o' it."
Meanwhile the stormers of the English army had advanced to within
an arrow's flight of the walls. Like a gigantic spring the attackers
clustered together in a vast coil, ready to unwind and thrust itself
against the battlements of Harfleur; yet, though the truce was at an
end, the reopening of the hostilities seemed suspended till the
double tragedy was enacted.
Bravely Geoffrey braced himself to undergo the final ordeal. Come
the worst, he was determined to let his enemies see how a true
English squire would die, cheered by the desperate yet doubtless
unavailing efforts of his own countrymen to effect his rescue.
Slowly the sun sank in the west; longer grew the shadow of the lofty
towers, till it was lost in the distance. Then as the blood-red orb
disappeared beneath the horizon the gallows on the plain was not
without its burden.
The shout of execration that rose from the Frenchmen on the walls
was drowned by the sullen roar of rage and fury from the besiegers
as the men-at-arms seized the English squire and raised him on their
shoulders.
The fatal noose was already around his neck when the Lord of
Gaucourt spoke.
"Cast the squire loose," ordered he. "By St. Denis, I am not a
butcher. The King of England spoke truly when he said that the spy
had placed himself beyond the pale, but this prisoner hath not
merited such a death. Take him to the quarters in the citadel. Ho,
there! Bid our men stand fast for the honour of France, for our
enemies are upon us!"
In the midst of a guard of men-at-arms, Geoffrey, well-nigh
bewildered by the sudden change of his fortunes, felt himself hurried
from the walls and through the narrow streets. Even as he went he
heard the air torn by the thunderous discharge of the bombards,
while ever and anon a huge stone shot, glancing from the
battlements, would hurtle overhead and bury itself in the midst of
the crowded houses of the town.
All that night the squire remained awake in his place of detention,
listening to the rumble of the ordnance. Yet though the
bombardment was continuous, there were no signs of an actual
assault being delivered, and at dawn the cannonade ceased.
Three more days passed, yet beyond a desultory discharge of
artillery hostilities seemed to be suspended, then to the squire's
inexpressible joy he heard the steady tramp of feet and shouts of
exultation uttered by hundreds of lusty English voices.
Ere he could realize that Harfleur had indeed fallen, the door of his
prison was thrown open, and Sir Thomas Carberry, attended by
Oswald, Ratcliffe, Gripwell, and several of the men-at-arms of
Warblington, flocked into the room.
Unable to utter a sound, Geoffrey grasped the knight's hands, while
his overjoyed comrades almost overwhelmed him with anxious
questions and hearty congratulations.
Thus a second time did Geoffrey Lysle taste the joys of freedom.
 CHAPTER XXII

THE MARCH OF THE FORLORN SEVEN THOUSAND

It will now be necessary to relate the final incidents of the siege of

Harfleur, after Geoffrey had been removed from the shadow of the
gallows.
All that night a heavy cannonade was directed against the doomed
town in order to prepare the way for the grand assault. But ere the
latter was delivered the Lord of Gaucourt sent a herald to the King of
England offering to capitulate within three days unless the town
should be succoured before the expiration of that term.
Incredibly inactive, the King of France made no effort to relieve the
fortress that had held out so bravely and desperately for more than
thirty days, and on Sunday, September 22, Gaucourt, accompanied
by the principal knights and burgesses of Harfleur, delivered up the
keys of the town.
On the following day Henry and his forces entered Harfleur with all
the pomp and magnificence of a conqueror, but at the North Gate he
removed his casque and shoes, and with impressive humility walked
barefooted to the principal church of the town, where the Te Deum
and Non Nobis were sung with the greatest fervour by hundreds of
battle-worn English warriors.
Having done his spiritual duty Henry's next care was to secure the
captured town against attacks from without, and to take steps to
husband his resources. Accordingly the captured knights and men-
at-arms were compelled to give up their arms and armour, and
allowed to retain only those garments sufficient to cover them.
Those who were willing to give their parole to surrender themselves
at Calais at Martinmas were dismissed. A few who declined to give
such assurances were sent to England with the booty.
The English had, by sheer valour and perseverance, secured the
chief town and port in Normandy; but in so doing their losses by
wounds and sickness were so great that the primary object of the
invasion—the conquest of France—was for the time being out of the
question.
Henry had three courses open to him: he could either remain within
the walls of Harfleur till reinforcements arrived from England, or he
could re-embark and give up the fruits of victory; or he could adopt
the desperate step of marching along the coast to Calais, a distance
of more than one hundred and seventy miles. Something had to be
done; so, with the glorious record of his great grandfather, Edward
III, to raise the enthusiasm of his men, Henry decided upon the
third and most dangerous alternative.
His preparations were soon complete, for the massing of a huge
French army hastened his actions. Five hundred and fifty men-at-
arms and twelve hundred archers were to be left at Harfleur to hold
the town at all costs; the sick and wounded, together with the
artillery and heavy transport, were sent back to Southampton, and
with a bare seven thousand men King Harry set out upon his
desperate enterprise on the morning of October 8.
"By St. George, 'twill be a question of no little advancement or a
glorious death," exclaimed Sir Thomas Carberry to his squire as from
his position in the vanguard of the host he turned and saw the
orderly lines of men breasting the hill beyond the town of Harfleur.
"If we gain our end our deed will be sung as long as England
remains a nation. Failing that, dulce et decorum est pro pâtria mori
—what sayest thou, Geoffrey?"
"Fair lord, I am in accord with thee, though to speak plainly I would
rather return to England victorious than lay my bones in the soil of
France. What thinkest thou of our chance, Sir Thomas?"
"'Tis not a chance: our future lies in the hands of One above. Yet,
speaking as a man well versed in war, our position is very little
different from that of the worthy King Edward III before Crécy, and,
certes, not worse than before Poictiers. Mark yon line of hungry men
clad in rags and rusty armour: I'll warrant they'll fight as blithely and
as well as did their forefathers. Times and manners change, in
sooth, but the character of the English soldier will, I trow, ever
remain the same."
Day after day the weary march was maintained, the troops sleeping
in the open at night, in constant expectation of a sudden onfall by
the overwhelming host that was known to be hovering in the vicinity.
Yet without any serious opposition the English Army reached the
mouth of the Somme, where Edward III had made a successful
crossing on his march to Calais.
But the fortune that had favoured his great-grandsire was denied the
brave and headstrong King Henry, for at Blanche-Taque, the scene of
the passage of the Somme, the French were massed in such a
strong position that it would have been sheer madness to attempt
the ford.
"By my halidome, my lords," exclaimed the King, when he saw the
enemy's strength and unassailable position, "ere I left Harfleur I
registered a solemn vow not to retrace one step while I wear coat-
armour. If I cannot go on, here I must abide, but since I am
unwilling to stand here and hurl defiance at these Frenchmen, I
must needs go on."
To this deliberate vow Henry scrupulously adhered. On one occasion
it is recorded that he inadvertently rode past a house that had been
selected for his night's resting-place. Stubbornly he refused to
return, and spent the night with his troops in the open.
It can be readily understood that a man who rigorously kept his oath
pertaining to small matters would be even more strict in the ordering
of greater things. He now gave orders for the little army to turn
aside and march inland, following the left bank of the swift-flowing
Somme.
This meant that the danger of his position was increased fourfold. So
long as he kept to the coast his left flank was secured from attack,
but directly the English Army marched away from the sea, it was
liable to be completely surrounded by the ever-growing French host.
For eight long days the English army marched slowly up the valley of
the Somme, vainly endeavouring to find a bridge or a ford that had
been left slenderly guarded. To the fatigues of their arduous march
were added the difficulties of obtaining provisions in a devastated
country, but encouraged by the personal example of their Sovereign
the troops maintained their courage and self-confidence.
"Canst perceive yon castle?" asked Gripwell of Geoffrey, pointing to
the summit of a square keep that showed itself above a distant hill.
"Tis the Castle of Maissons where the Count, Sir Raoul d'Aulx, holds
thy father captive."
"I have heard much of Maissons, but never before have I perceived
it," replied Geoffrey, shading his eyes as he looked towards the grim
pile. "How sayest thou, Arnold? Perchance Sir Raoul and most of his
men are in the field. If I obtain my lord's permission to take a score
of men-at-arms, 'twould be an easy matter to ride over to Maissons
and demand its surrender. Without doubt the near presence of the
English army would frighten them into opening their gates."
"Nay, 'tis not to be thought of, Squire Geoffrey," replied Gripwell.
"Hath not the King issued orders concerning stragglers and against
affairs requiring the absence of any soldiers from the army? Think no
more of it yet awhile, for I'll warrant that if we vanquish the host
that threatens us the gates of every castle in Normandy will be
thrown open to the King."
Reluctantly the young squire had to abandon the chance of rescuing
his father, but ere long an event occurred that kept him fully
occupied for some time to come.
"Geoffrey," exclaimed Sir Thomas Carberry, who had just left the
King's presence, "the time hath come when we must prove our
courage and devotion. Dost mark yon mill, at the head of the river?
The red roof is to be seen above the trees on thy left."
"Yes, sir," replied the squire. "Methinks that foes are in force there,
since the smoke of many camp fires rises skywards."
"Nay, 'tis the fires of the wood-cutters of Peronne. But to the point:
my company must seize yon mill at all costs, and hold the ford above
but hard by the mill till the main body of the army can cross. See to
it that the mounted men-at-arms only are to essay this task—of the
archers we have no need. Now, hasten, for every moment is
precious."
Led by Sir Thomas Carberry in person, with Geoffrey and Oswald
and Richard Ratclyffe riding close behind him, the eighty men-at-
arms rode steadily through the open valley towards the ford. Then,
as the company rounded an intervening spur of ground, the mill
again appeared in sight.
Scattered in and around the rambling stone building were several
French knights, crossbowmen and men-at-arms. Although placed
there for the express purpose of guarding the important passage, it
was not until the head of the English column showed itself that the
defenders realized the danger. Standing in his stirrups Sir Thomas
shouted his battle-cry; then with a roar the horsemen thundered
towards the ford.
Ere the horses could gain the water sufficient time had elapsed to
enable the crossbowmen to wind their cumbersome weapons, and
with a dull bass hum the heavy quarrels began to speed over and
betwixt the Englishmen, some finding a billet in the bodies of the
charging horsemen or their steeds. Now and again a horse would
sink to earth, throwing its rider headlong, while those following had
much ado to prevent themselves from being overthrown by the still
plunging animal. Sometimes a thrown rider would struggle to his
feet and begin to stumble blindly after his comrades, but more often
the thrown warrior would lie still and motionless, never again to hear
the shouts of his victorious comrades in arms.
Now the head of the column was in the swift-flowing river. The water
soaked through Geoffrey's mailed shoes and greaves, but the squire
heeded it not: his whole attention was directed against a knot of
mail-clad Frenchmen who were urging their steeds into the stream
to contest the possession of the ford.
With a crash the sharpened lance-points met, but owing to the
retarding influence of the water the shock was not so great as that
of the tilt-yard. Some of the less skilful riders were hurled from their
saddles to perish miserably in the river, but the majority, casting
aside their unwieldy lances, fell upon each other with axe, mace and
sword.
Of what happened during the next few moments Geoffrey had but a
dim recollection. It was cut, thrust, and parry, steel ringing on steel,
horses champing and neighing, wounded men shrieking dismally till
their miserable cries were stifled by the silent yet swift-running
current, and above all the hoarse shouts of the English men-at-arms
who were not to be gainsaid in their determination to win the ford.
At length the mêlée thinned, and the squire found himself opposed
to a knight clad in bronzed armour, and armed with a long two-
handled sword. Wedged firmly in his high-pommelled saddle the
Frenchman had slung his shield behind his back, and, with the reins
dropped upon his horse's mane, he was able to devote his whole
strength to the wielding of his mighty weapon.
A sweeping cut delivered at Geoffrey's head the squire caught upon
his shield, with no other ill effect than to shear off its upper corner.
Then with lightning rapidity the cut was repeated, this time full on
the youth's right side. The Englishman's sword barely checked the
swinging blow that all but numbed the lad's sword-arm, while his
counter-cut fell harmlessly upon the French knight's gorget.
Realizing that the only way to avoid the seemingly tireless cuts was
to get within his adversary's guard Geoffrey dug his spurs into the
flanks of his charger. The powerful brute instantly responded, and
the two animals were plunging neck to neck as Geoffrey rained a
hail of ineffectual blows upon the Frenchman, who in turn
endeavoured to shorten his sword and recover his lost advantage.
Heedlessly the two combatants were edging down stream, till with a
neigh of terror the Frenchman's horse lost its footing. Its hind feet
had slipped over a shelf in the bed of the river. Scraping desperately
with its fore hoofs it strove to regain a foothold. Only by his prompt
action was Geoffrey able to save himself and his steed from a similar
fate.
"Help me, I yield," shouted the knight, dropping his sword and
holding out his right hand.
In reply, Geoffrey stretched out his gauntleted hand to grasp his
vanquished foe, but ere he could do so the struggling animal's feet
slipped from the ledge, and in an instant horse and knight were lost
to view in the depths of the mill-stream.
By this time the ford was won. Those of the defenders who had
escaped slaughter had fled, save a few who, taking shelter in the
mill, resisted desperately till slain to the last man.
The Constable of Portchester's company had lost heavily. Fifteen
gallant men-at-arms had ridden to their death, while a score more
had been sorely wounded. Ratclyffe was making light of a blow that,
cracking his steel bascinet, had grazed his forehead till he was well-
nigh blinded with blood. Neither Sir Thomas nor his squire Geoffrey
had sustained injury, though dents in their armour bore silent
testimony to the heat of the action. But the object of the
engagement was achieved, for without further molestation the whole
of the little English army crossed the Somme.
"Ay, my lord, they bore themselves right manfully," replied Sir
Thomas Carberry, when the Earl of Exeter complimented him on the
gallant exploit of the company. "But here we are across the river,
and I'll warrant our difficulties are only begun. Yet mark these
rascals of mine, they reck not the odds, so long as there is the
prospect of a fight."
"Then they'll have their desire ere long, Sir Thomas," replied the Earl
—"a fight compared with which this gallant deed is but naught. The
fame of the English arms will ring through Christendom ere we reach
Calais."
"Amen," replied the Constable. "For 'tis for this purpose that we are
here."
 CHAPTER XXIII

THE EVE OF AGINCOURT

T he English army had crossed the Somme at a distance of more

than sixty miles from the ford of Blanche-Taque, where Edward
III had made his bold stroke eighty years previously. To regain the
sea by descending the right bank of the river would mean a march
that was beyond the strength of the weary soldiers; accordingly King
Henry resolved to abandon his original plan and march direct to
Calais.
It was not until the morning of October 24, that the invaders crossed
the River Ternoise after a slight skirmish at the ford of Blangy. On
and on they toiled, soaked by the October rain, half famished, and
footsore through hard marching; yet the indomitable spirit that
pervaded the dauntless band never for one moment showed signs of
flagging.
On crossing the Ternoise the order of march had been reversed. The
Hampshire companies, on whom the brunt of the vanguard actions
had fallen, were ordered to fall in with the main body, while the
advance guard was entrusted to the men of Yorkshire and Devon,
under the command of the Duke of York.
"SIRE, WERE THERE ANY WHO DWELT IN FEAR OF THE
ISSUE
OF THE BATTLE, WOULD THEY SLEEP SO QUIETLY?"
Steadily Geoffrey and Oswald trudged through the stiff clay that
sorely impeded the progress of the soldiers. The squires had
divested themselves of a portion of their armour, that dangled from
the saddle-bow of their chargers. In common with many of the
mounted men they had temporarily given up their steeds to those of
the archers who would otherwise have fallen out by the wayside.
Twelve miles of that tedious route had been accomplished since the
passage of the Ternoise, when a soldier, galloping madly on a foam-
flecked horse, came thundering along the road, a shower of mud
flying from the hoofs of his steed.
"The enemy, sir," he shouted as he passed the leader of the
Hampshire companies.
Already the vanguard was observed to be at a standstill, while the
supporting troops extending right and left were taking up their
position on the flanks. The spirit of battle was in the air.
Massing in close order the five thousand men of the main body
moved to the support of their van. Cold, fatigue, hunger—all were
forgotten.
It was a stirring sight that met the gaze of Geoffrey and his
comrades as they gained the brow of a low hill overlooking the
woods of Maisoncelles. Before them lay a gently-sloping plain,
flanked on either side by dense masses of trees, while across the
open ground could be traced the narrow lane that passed through
the village of Agincourt and joined the broader road from Abbeville
to Calais, just beyond the cluster of thatched and mud-walled
houses.
But to the observers' eyes the lane was lost to view in the serried
ranks of the mighty host representing the chivalry and power of
France. Three bowshots off, at the very least, the enemy stood,
barring the advance of the slender English force.
Swiftly, yet in an orderly manner, the archers and men-at-arms of
the invading army took up their positions. The men-at-arms, barely
four thousand in number, were placed in the centre, the bowmen
being massed on either flank; but by mutual consent, for the night
was beginning to draw on, there was no inclination to engage in
battle.
"The King's orders are that ye rest yourselves," announced Sir
Thomas Carberry, as he rode up to his company. "'Tis nearly certain
that the foe will not attack us this night, yet to guard against
surprise let each man sleep in his ranks, with his arms ready at his
side. 'Tis a sorry night, men, for rest, yet be assured I and my
squires will share the discomforts with you."
"I heed not the rain, fair sir," exclaimed an archer boldly, "though I
be powerful hungry."
Good-humoured laughter from his fellows greeted these words.
Geoffrey recognized the voice as that of one of the Warblington
archers, who in times of peace was a wild-fowler of the marches of
Thorney.
"Have no fear on that score, archer," replied the Constable. "Already
the sutlers are abroad, and many wains of provisions are on their
way from yonder village. I do perceive, also, that on our right flank
the men are lighting fires. Gripwell, do thou send ten men into the
woods and bring back faggots sufficient to last us the night."
Quickly the men went on their errand, and ere long thick columns of
smoke arose from the sodden logs, till the heat gaining the mastery,
the dull red flames began to throw out a comforting glow. Then,
with the arrival of the victualling wains, drawn by peasants pressed
into service, the camp began to show signs of cheerfulness, in spite
of the almost continuous downfall of icy rain. Yet the utmost order
and decorum prevailed in the English lines—a striking contrast to the
boisterous laughter and merriment that was wafted on the winds
from around the watch fires of the French camp.
At intervals officers passed slowly along the lines intent on seeking
out their friends, whom, perchance, they were to see and converse
with for the last time; priests and friars, too, threaded their way
amongst the soldiery, hearing confessions and giving spiritual
consolation to all who desired their ministrations.
Thus the time passed till it was midnight. At intervals the rain
ceased, and the pale moonbeams glittered upon the damp grass and
the waving foliage of the neighbouring woods. Most of the English
troops had fallen asleep, slumbering fitfully under the canopy of
heaven. Others conversed in low tones, or offered up prayers for the
safety of their comrades and themselves, and for the successful
issue of the coming struggle. Still the French camp maintained its
state of revelry, for food and wine were in abundance, and, with
every prospect of delivering a crushing defeat upon their numerically
weaker foes, the mercurial spirits of the Frenchmen rose high. They
had forgotten their defeats at Crécy and Poictiers; time had erased
the memory of the English longbow.
"The night drags slowly on," remarked Oswald, drawing his
saturated cloak more closely around his shoulders. "Would that we
had something to do to bring some warmth to our bodies."
"We'll not lack for warmth ere the sun sets again," replied Geoffrey.
"But what discord those Frenchmen are making. Could we but let
loose a troop of lances through the camp there would be no little
advancement occasioned by the deed. But who cometh?"
At that moment a soldier walked swiftly along the front of the line of
recumbent men. The moonbeams glistened on his armour that a
long cloak failed entirely to conceal.
"Halt! who comes?" demanded Geoffrey, barring the stranger's way
with drawn sword.
"A friend! Why hast thou challenged me?" replied the man in a deep
voice.
"'Tis not permitted to pass without the lines," replied the squire. "I
pray thee keep close to the fires, lest an over-zealous archer feather
thy back with an arrow."
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